Fantasie Impromptu
by NortheasternWind
Summary: Having left his sheet music in the academy, Autor goes back one night to retrieve them.  And there he meets someone he did not expect...


...Wow. Uh. So, I originally wrote this up as a blurb because I had nothing else to do and wasn't sure I'd be on long enough to talk to anyone, and it... ballooned. And I've no idea how that happened. So I gave it a (clearly extremely original) title, removed the obscure references only my friends would understand, and here it is. It's not terribly good, but more Princess Tutu and Eternal Sonata fanfiction is better, right?

This is my first time writing for our good friend Frederic here, and maybe my third or fourth time for Autor, so if anyone has tips or issues with my characterization of them both, I'd appreciate hearing them. ...And, also, historical inaccuracies. If you see them, tell me!

**This oneshot contains things I do not own.** Enjoy!

**xxx**

Autor did not normally return to the academy this late at night: he would really much rather be sleeping at home, or playing the piano at home, or doing any other number of things not involving schoolwork- at home, which was much more accessible than the academy. But here he was, making the trip anyway: Ahiru had pulled him away from the piano in the middle of a composition, and in the course of the ensuing adventure Autor had forgotten all about it. (Those kittens were terribly talented at hiding.) He was rather protective of his music, and had only remembered just now; as he was having trouble sleeping anyway, he decided he may as well head back and retrieve the sheets before someone threw them away in the morning. That would be very upsetting indeed.

No one locked their doors at night in Kinkan- except Autor, of course- and the academy was no exception. The gate opened easily, and he was not at all worried about not finding the spare practice room the same way. Though it made the normally peaceful town susceptible to thieves and mischief-makers, he could not deny that it made getting inside at night easier.

Not that such a thing should ever be so easy. As Autor carefully pulled open the door to the music building, the delicate sound of music reached his ears- someone playing the piano in one of the practice rooms. He frowned, shutting the door behind him quietly; there was no shortage of pianists in the academy, but he was quite sure none of them would ever return so late at night simply to play. Those who boarded at the academy had plenty of time to do so after classes if they wished, and everyone else would probably have a piano at home.

At least, Autor would certainly hope so. How could one possibly become a competent pianist if one did not even own a piano?

As the student walked down the corridor towards the sound, he realized something far more intriguing than the mere fact that someone was playing music at a fine arts academy, even at night: the music drifting lightly down the hall was his own, the song he'd left lying on the piano when Ahiru dragged him outside to go look for kittens. And beyond that, the music was perfect- played exactly as Autor had written it, with all the notes and dynamics intact and every bit of soul he had imagined when he played it in his mind.

Autor finally reached the door, and carefully pushed it open, hoping not to be noticed by whoever was inside. Sitting at the piano, back facing the door, was a man with black hair and fine clothes: a dark blue overcoat and matching tophat. It looked very old-fashioned, but Autor did not think too deeply on that, as Kinkan in general had a tendency to be old-fashioned.

Autor had not finished the song yet; the man reached up and flipped the last sheet over, but if he was surprised to find it half-empty, he made no indication of it. Autor fully expected him to stop when he reached the end of the sheet, but to his surprise the man kept going— evidently improvising the rest on his own. The student's eyes widened: it was as though the man had composed the entire piece himself. His additions sounded every bit a part of the song as the notes Autor had written, and indeed possessed the same life and emotion he had been trying to convey himself. In fact, though Autor would never have admitted it, he thought briefly that it sounded much better than any ending he could have come up with.

The song came to an end softly, slowly, the man withdrawing his fingers from the instrument. Though he had not expected it, Autor was not surprised when the man turned in his seat to face him: any competent musician could discern any number of sounds from their surroundings, and the man had no doubt heard him enter while he played. A large, fancy pocketwatch dangled from his waist, and he wore a kindly smile.

"Good evening."

"Good evening, sir." Autor stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. "I was just coming back to retrieve my sheets and heard you playing. I'm sorry if I seem rude."

"No, it's quite all right. If anyone is intruding, it's me." He reached behind him, taking the sheets from the piano and holding them out to the student. "I suppose these are yours, then?"

Autor nodded, taking them. "Yes, they are. I composed that piece myself, though I'm not finished with it yet."

"It's very good. I like it."

Autor could not stop himself from smirking. "Thank you, sir. I can see that." If this person had taken the effort to compose his own ending for the piece, Autor was sure the compliment must be genuine. And while he did not particularly care what a complete stranger thought, it was certainly heartening.

The man smiled. "It seemed a shame to leave it unfinished, so I added my own ending. I hope you do not mind."

"Not at all. It might even make writing the real ending easier." Autor pushed his glasses up his nose. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been playing the piano? I can hardly believe you just pulled all of that out of thin air at a whim."

"Few people can. But I have been playing and composing all my life, and it isn't terribly difficult to find the conclusion to a story half-told."

"It might not end the way you expect it to."

"No, I suppose not." The man chuckled. "You must forgive me if I say something strange, by the way. German is not my native language."

"Actually, I wouldn't have been able to tell if you hadn't told me." Autor said. "Where are you from?"

"Poland. My birthplace is not very close to the German border, however."

"But you travel."

"Ah... More than I used to." He laughed, and Autor got the feeling he was missing something.

"So, how did you come to be here in the academy?" he asked. "I doubt you simply came for a visit, and this town doesn't get many visitors in the first place."

"Well, I did not come here of my own volition." the man said. "This was simply where I found myself when I awoke. Outside, rather- I wandered inside while trying to discern my location."

Autor pushed his glasses up his nose again. "Well, I can at least tell you that this is very much reality, as my friends and I have discovered several times now. But... what do you mean? You just woke up here, in the academy?"

"That's right. Though as this has happened before, I can wager a guess as to what has caused it this time. If I am here, in Europe, I must be dying in the dream world."

Autor frowned. "The dream world...?"

"Lying on my deathbed here in this world I grew up in, I dreamed of adventures in another world, a world based on my music, that would slowly become my new reality. If I am here, it would not be a stretch to say that something has happened to me in that world." The man gave a sad smile. "I have tuberculosis, you see."

The music student raised an eyebrow. "That's curable, you know."

"Is it now?" The man looked genuinely surprised. "Not in the world of my dreams, and not in the world I knew."

"You must have died a long time ago." Autor said, eying the man's clothes. "It's 2011 here."

"Then it has indeed been a long time. Over a century and a half."

Autor could hardly believe it. "Amazing… Yes, tuberculosis would have been an incurable illness in your time. I'm sorry."

"I have learned to accept it, though it certainly did take some time. But in any case, here I am."

Autor tilted his head. "Would you rather be in the dream world?" He should, by all rights, have completely rejected this notion as ridiculous, and the man's story as fiction. But after watching Drosselmeyer's Story come to life, and accidentally doing the same with his own music, Autor found himself believing this unusual tale. "After all, if you've died here..."

"There is certainly more waiting for me on the other side, yes." The man nodded. "But I am not going to kill myself on the off chance that it will return me there, and I know of no other way to do so. And so here I shall stay, until I either wake up or die."

For a man unsure of whether he would ever see his loved ones again, Autor thought he sounded rather content with the whole situation. "If it is a dream, why would you rather be there? If none of the things you dreamed actually happened, and the people you met aren't real... Wouldn't you rather stay here, and forge true friendships? It seems awfully pointless to return to a world that doesn't exist."

The man smiled sadly again. "The entire journey, I myself wondered... Is this world real? Is it only a dream? Is the world I knew- Warsaw, Paris, Vienna- was that world the dream? Both worlds felt so real to me, I became unsure. Though I was entirely convinced that none of it was actually happening, I found myself concerned for the well-being of my companions- something that should not have happened if it were only an illusion. But I went on with them, in spite of my doubts. I wanted to know whether or not this beautiful world was reality, or merely a fictional creation of my dying mind."

Silence fell over the pair, and somehow Autor found himself reluctant to ask his next question.

"Did you ever find your answer?"

The man did not respond for some time, instead looking out the window at the night sky. He must have opened it when he came in; a cool breeze tousled Autor's hair, and the view of the stars was not fogged by glass.

"I was tired of waiting, trying to decide if these feelings of camaraderie and love were worth harboring anymore, or if they were only for fictional creatures in my mind." He sighed. "I snapped. I turned on them. In an attempt to discern dream from reality, I turned on my friends and tried to kill them all."

Autor's eyes widened. That was not at all the answer he was expecting.

"If it was a dream..." he went on. "Then I should be able to control what happens in it. Right? If I could manipulate the events in that world, then I would have my answer— I would know for sure that it was only a dream, and I could return to the reality I so dearly loved."

The man shook his head. "I couldn't do it. I came close, but they bested me, and proved once and for all that their world, even if only a product of my mind, was not something I could control. Something more than a dream. My new reality. And so I accepted that I had indeed gone to a new world, and thus died in this one."

A little dumbstruck, Autor took a few moments to find his voice again. "You... tried to kill your companions?"

"They never hated me for it. Oh, we've spoken about it, we've argued over it, but not for an instant did they hold it against me. I really don't deserve their friendship."

"…I know the feeling." Autor sighed. "But I must say… It's difficult to imagine someone of your demeanor trying to kill anyone."

"Desperation and insecurity make murderers of us all." he said sadly. "But yes, I suppose that's part of the reason everyone was so willing to forgive me."

He turned to the piano again. "I returned briefly to this world after that, where I composed one final piece. I don't believe anyone heard me playing, but a dear friend present at my bedside unintentionally provided the perfect lyrics. Would you like to hear it?"

Despite the fact that it was nearing two in the morning, Autor nodded. "Go ahead."

The man's hands hovered over the keys, before he paused, laughing. "Forgive me if my singing leaves something to be desired. A lifetime of tuberculosis does not do wonders for one's voice."

"No, I think not."

"Haha. Very well, then."

And so he played, a soft but powerful melody, and sang, in a language Autor recognized as Italian. Though he could not understand the words, there was something moving in the way the man played that conveyed the meaning all on its own.

_'Se un sol desiderio si avvererà canta la vita…'_

Even when the lyrics ended, the man went on playing, no longer needing words to impart his message. Autor was not sure how long it must have been, but the music held his attention until the very last note, ending much stronger than it had begun.

"…Beautiful."

"Thank you." The man reached out and pulled the cover over the keys.

"…If it doesn't sound too invasive," Autor said, "I'd like to ask what inspired that song. If you had enough time to compose it as a spirit, it must already have been in your mind."

The man gave a quiet chuckle. "I suppose… In a way, it was inspired by my younger sister. She passed away of tuberculosis as well, at the age of fourteen. There was a girl in the dream world the very same age—and, because of the nature of that world, doomed to die before her fifteenth birthday. My own sister never lived to that age, so why would her dream equivalent ever be able to? But in the end, because it was my world, I managed to will her back to life. She is probably at my bedside now, waiting for me to awaken."

"…I see." But then Autor frowned. "But I thought you said it was more than a dream? Not something you could control?"

The man's perpetual smile faded. "Yes, I know. Sometimes I wonder… If I was able to reverse her death, why wasn't I able to defeat her and her friends in battle?"

Autor closed his eyes. He had no idea why he was even accepting that this person had indeed gone to another world, or why he was actually searching for an answer for that question, or why he was even talking to this person when he did not even give his name, but here he was. Doing both of those things. Tonight was the night for doing things he shouldn't be, apparently.

"…Maybe your will to see her live was stronger than your will to kill them." he said. "After all, you said they were your friends."

"That still implies that the world there was only something that exists in my mind."

"It does, doesn't it. Hm…"

And then it hit him, in a glorious burst of dawning comprehension.

"You said you've been composing all your life?" he asked, growing excited.

The man noticed, but did not comment; only frowned. "Yes."

"And your compositions… Did you base them on the people you knew, and your experiences, like the one you just performed?"

"…Yes. It's rather difficult to put yourself into a piece that does not come from you."

"And the dream world—it seemed to be based on your music?"

"Yes…?"

"Have you ever heard of a man named Drosselmeyer?"

The man only stared up at him blankly.

"Drosselmeyer had the ability to write his stories into reality." Autor explained. "Whenever he wrote, some version of his words would come to life and play themselves out in the real world- an ability that seems to be unique to him and his descendants." Most of them. "It was never discovered where he obtained this ability, or if was learned from somewhere else.

"What if he wasn't the only one? What if, by putting your heart and soul into a piece of music, you could bring it to life?"

The man listened carefully, nodding slowly. "So you're saying…"

"You can do that." Autor said. "In fact, you can do it so well, you've willed not only a chain of events, but an entire world into existence… And that's why there are only certain events you can control. It_ is_ a product of your imagination, but it exists outside of your mind." Autor stood back and marveled. "By putting your feelings and experiences into song, you've created something real. Amazing… Of course, we have no way of knowing if this is actually true until you compose something that comes to life before us."

The man blinked, and smiled. "In that case, we may be able to prove it now. Would any of my music have any effect here, in this world?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"What time is it?"

It seemed like an odd question, but Autor brought up his arm to look at his wristwatch. "Ten to two."

"In the morning… Perfect." The man stood up from the bench, smiling. "If you would follow me, then?"

Autor stared. "To a place in this village you know of, and I don't?"

The man laughed. "We're not looking for a specific place, but a specific thing—something I can recognize, and you can't. It should be in the forests nearby. We'll look together."

Autor normally had absolutely no inclination to follow complete strangers through town, but this man intrigued him. He seemed kindly enough, and if he was indeed wracked with tuberculosis the music student would have little trouble outrunning him if trouble arose. "All right. Let's go."

It did not take long at all to find what the man was referring to: in fact, no sooner had the pair stepped into the forest than Autor realized something was different.

"…I don't remember these flowers being here." he said, frowning at the ground before his feet. "There was always at least room to walk."

"There should be a clearing up ahead, then." the man said, pleased. "We should hurry."

Autor and his companion carefully wove their way between the closed violet buds, heading deeper into the forest until—

"…This was most definitely not here yesterday."

There was indeed a new clearing, filled with little purple flower buds of a kind Autor had never seen before. He looked up at the mysterious man. "And these flowers are your creation?"

"We'll see. What time is it now?"

Autor looked at his watch again. "Just about two. Is something supposed to ha…"

He never finished. The town's clock struck two, and suddenly there was a wave of light: the purple buds opened simultaneously, revealing blossoms of stirring violet that glowed with an incandescent light, filling the clearing with color and beauty.

"Some call them Death Lights." the man said as Autor's mouth fell open. "Because they only bloom after darkness falls, at exactly two in the morning. But to me, these flowers are Heaven's Mirror; the unbroken surface of glass, reflecting what mere mortals cannot see. They only exist in the dream world, but playing the song they and the person who introduced me to them here must have brought them into this town."

Autor stepped forward into the clearing. What Ahiru wouldn't give to see this…

"…This is amazing." He cleared his throat. "I suppose this confirms our theory, then. You can indeed write music into reality."

"So it would seem." The man chuckled. "Thank you, young man. I believe I have my answer for sure, now."

"No, the pleasure is mine- I never imagined I would learn something new tonight." Autor held out a hand. "My name is Autor, if you would rather call me that."

The man took Autor's hand and shook it. "Frédéric François Chopin, though you are of course free to call me Frederic."

Autor froze mid-shake. If he had been surprised by the man's playing and composing abilities, it was nothing compared to this. "…What?"

The man gave a knowing smile, and Autor remembered that he had been famous even in life. "Frederic. It's a pleasure."

Of course. His illness, his homeland, his time period, even his sister…

"Two in the morning." Autor said. "Chopin— you died at almost exactly two in the morning."

The man chuckled. "Yes, but I believe that is a coincidence. The flowers already bloomed at that time before I died."

Autor's heart raced. Chopin… The Poet of the Piano, the great composer, Chopin, was standing before him, alive and in the flesh. "Of course… Of course, if anyone could write music into reality, it would be Chopin."

"Haha. Thank you."

Chopin had created his own world through his compositions... Chopin was the Drosselmeyer of music. Words could not describe Autor's excitement.

"You truly are amazing, Mr. Chopin."

"Frederic." The man bowed, still smiling. "You are too kind."

"Not at all." Autor paused. "Where will you be staying for the night? I rather doubt you will have found lodgings this quickly…" He wasn't about to offer his own home— not even Frederic Chopin warranted that sort of honor— but he would rather not leave the poor man to sleep outside.

"It was broad daylight when I left the other world." Frederic said. "I believe I can live one day without sleep. I will in all likelihood still be here tomorrow, so I may as well become acquainted with this town, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes… Yes, of course." Autor nodded. "Well… I should be leaving as well. I haven't slept yet either."

"Then you should head home. My apologies for keeping you."

"Not at all, sir. Frederic." Autor could still hardly believe it. "In fact, thank you."

The composer and pianist gave him one final smile. "It's no trouble. Just make it home safely."

"I will. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Autor."

And so they left the clearing, going their separate ways. Autor was not even sure he was going down the right road, too excited were his thoughts. Chopin was here, in Kinkan… Chopin had composed himself back to life, completely by accident… Chopin had played the piano in his presence, in the academy. Had played a composition no one else in this world had yet heard.

Autor's eyes widened. Chopin had played _his_ composition. And he had liked it. He said so himself.

And all of this had happened because of a litter of adventurous kittens.

Autor smirked. He would have to thank Ahiru in the morning.


End file.
